Archive for September, 2011

I talk a lot, but I don’t say much. I am actually pretty shy. Keeping secrets is a shortcoming. Not secrets about you, secrets about myself. Many people, even those closest to me, do not know very much about me. They are often surprised to find out even seemingly ordinary things about me. But there are people, those I know and those I have never met personally, who tell me my secrets. These short stories are about some of those people.

“Honey, what are you going to do about your marriage?”

“My marriage?”

“I could see you’re not happy. You’re too young to be unhappy.”

Was it that obvious? He was quiet. He didn’t talk very much during our visit up east, to me or anyone else.

“I am not making any decisions right now.”

“Maybe you should get some counseling.”

She only stands shoulder high, but her presence is undeniable. When she smiles her teeth mash together as she crinkles her nose. It was impossible to avoid eye contact when she talks. She is my aunt.

Memphis had a tough start to life. He was aggressive, and I could not control him. I came very close to putting him to rest. When he was only a few months old, he would go from sleeping peacefully in my lap to violently attaching the other dogs, Boston in particular.

To manage his behavior and to keep the other dogs safe, I strategically placed baby gates, crates and air horns throughout the house. At the time, trying to manage the situation was all I could do, while I uncovered the cause of the behavior and to modify it. I used special collars and leashes, changed his food, gave him supplements and adhered to strict rules and routines. I would not let any of the other dogs stare at him; they learned to look away and not make eye contact. Things improved, but there were still fights.

When Memphis would get into a fight, my first concern was always safety. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. My second concern was all of the dogs’ emotional states. I worried that Memphis was insane and that it was affecting the other dogs. They all learned to be cautious around him, but were they scared and unhappy too?

My mother liked to play bingo. This was the only time she ever went to church. Every Tuesday, she would ask one of us in the house to go with her. The answer was always no, but she went anyway. Bingo was for old people, it couldn’t be much fun. One week she couldn’t drive, I don’t remember why; but I agreed to take her. I was nervous, not knowing what to expect. When we arrived at the church, we stood in line, waiting for the doors to open. It was important to get there early, so she could get her “usual seat.” The desk in the hall had piles of bingo cards on it. People bought a hundred of them. My mother got her cards, and I began to sweat. “I’m with her,” I said. “I’m just going to watch.”

I followed my mother down the long hall into a huge room full of tables and chairs. We sat down in her usual spot. She spread out some of her cards. They were made of newsprint, so she took some tape out of her bag and taped them to the table. In her bag was also two plastic bottles of ink, a bright red wand with a magnet in it, lots of red translucent markers, and cash. She took one of the bottles of ink and dabbed the free, center square of the nine cards in front of her, then placed the bottle down. She was ready.

Memphis had not gotten into a fight in almost four months. Then one night, Memphis and I were sleeping and I rolled over onto him and woke him. He instantly stood up on the bed, looked me straight in the eyes and froze. I was sure he was going to kill me, so I was quietly making a plan to defend myself. Then, just as suddenly as he’d stood, he looked away, shook, jumped down off the bed, circled a few times, then got back on the bed, laid down and went back to sleep. He shook it off and was now sleeping! I could not close my eyes. This was the moment when I knew he was better, this was the moment I saw him look away.

“N32 . . . B14 . . . G50.” The man calling the numbers was on a stage with a round basket next to him, and a large sign with numbers and letters above him. The sign would light up each time he spoke. “B1!” Everyone in the room swiped their bottles down the B column and dabbed the corresponding square on their bingo cards. No one spoke. Their gaze was on the cards and their ears alert for one word.

“Only a few people know this: my husband is a recovering alcoholic. He has been sober for three years. It was hard for him to stop drinking, but he did it. We are still adjusting to our new life.”

“Three years is a long time, honey.” She said as she leaned in closer.

I wanted to tell my aunt everything but I couldn’t.

“I know, but right now he is focused on his work and staying sober. I can wait.”

“Are you getting help, have you gone to meetings? They really do help.”

How does she know about meetings? Look away, look away!

“Ya I go to meetings, we both do. We are working on it.”

“That’s good…” I don’t remember what she said next. I was trying to hide my pain and fight the tears.

Finally, I said, “when my parents had their 50th anniversary party, my mother said, ‘Fifty years, and they weren’t all happy.’ Well, how do I know if these are the years that aren’t so happy?”

“You know if you have a good foundation. You have to be good to each other; but remember, you are responsible for your own happiness.”